The birch of my imagining recalls
a human tide no parchment can record,
no artful rock or shards of pottery
from west to east we tracked the seething falls
from south to icy north our numbers poured
determined to outpace calamity
a curl of floating bark, my reason stalls
and from it spirals, tranquil, new accord
what dies returns. Such is society.
The weightless that surrounds these crumbling walls
is my true providence, with room and board
assigned to how I view prosperity
So, leap from grief to thrill, you’re but a seam
we’ve named as death. The monarch calls you dream.
© Elaine Stirling, 2015